Sat, 11 May 2019 19:55:07 -0400WeeblyFri, 10 May 2019 20:04:51 GMThttp://brendazook.weebly.com/blog/the-sacrament-of-the-present-momentWherever my soul wanders, this is the truth that pulls me back to home, anchors me near the shore of grace, clarifies the cloudy water,and helps me say yes to whatever is before me:

This present moment is what I have and God is in it.

​I can call it mindfulness.I can explain it as choosing to focus.I can call myself back to the silence of pause. ​​I can quote the verse “Be still and know that I am God.”

In my soul, all these thoughts are facets of the same simple but astonishing truth:

God is fully, completely present in this moment,and when I settle myself in that liminal space, I am resting in the Presence.

The Sacrament of the Present Moment, attributed to Jean Pierre de Caussade, began as a series of instructional letters written in the mid 1700’s, and I found much wisdom in its pages in the past few weeks.

The rest of this post consists of a series of quotes from Jean Pierre de Caussade (JPC) which found their way into my journal. I share them to urge you to keep returning to this present moment,for truly God is here.

(I read the version pictured here, translated by Kitty Muggeridge, and published by HarperCollins. I’d gladly loan you mine, but you’ll probably want to have your own copy so you can do your own underlining.)

God speaks to every individualthrough what happens to them moment by moment.(JPC)

No moment is trivial...(JPC)

​The only condition necessary for the state of self-surrender​is the present momentin which the soul, light as a feather, fluid as water, innocent as a child, responds to every movement of grace like a floating balloon. (JPC)

​Precious moment,how small in the eyes of my head,how great in those of my heart,the means whereby I receive small things​from the Father who reigns in heaven. (JPC)

​Our souls can only be truly nourished, strengthened, enriched, and satisfied by the bounty of the present moment. What more can we ask? (JPC)

Indeed, what more can we ask? We have this moment,the sacrament of the present moment.where God is, where we live our lives, where we meet the One who is fully present, Presence. What more could we ask? HumminB.

“Look and you will find it - what is unsought will go undetected. -Sophocles

If this is true, I know I'm bound to find spring if I can just get myself out the door. I mean, it’s April. I’ve been actively seeking spring. Every. single. day.

I know it will show up eventually, but I find joy in the search and discovery of each little sign.

For today's ramble, I'm heading to the creek. Want to come along and see what's to discover?

I pick my way along the creek edge, close as I dare. I imagine I'm sharing the worn path with a ghost coon who last night carefully washed scavenged corn in the shallows, while delicate paws sank deep into fresh mud. See the deep imprint there in the sediment deposited after snow melt? Both mud and active raccoons are a soft sign of spring. I’ll take them!

The stream bedazzles me. Liquid stars flicker and frolic, and I have to squint, but I cannot look away. Murmuring, chuckling across rocks as smooth as old thoughts, water music disperses dark notions that would roost in my brain like migrating starlings.

Overhead, a redwing black bird “dum-tweedle-dee’s,” and from every direction, I’m wrapped in robin song. A bluebird’s graceful notes float by like a half-remembered dream, and I strain to catch a glimpse. All of these melodies are singing "spring!" in my heart.

The wind taunts me, and I pull my sweatshirt closer to keep frosty fingers from my neck. But greenest wild garlic cannot lie; winter has lost its chilling power.

Thin flower tendrils hang from a few trees, and pussy willows whisper that we’re on the verge of spring.

In the fields just beyond the stream, the deep brown of freshly plowed earth proves that Neighbor Farmer has been thinking spring too.

It’s time to head home. Brrr. that wind. Still, I've found what I've been looking for, and I'm warm on the inside. And even though I’m walking alone, I’m smiling goofy-wide, and my soul is celebrating with the happy dance of “yes!”

Is this how it always is, the seeking, the finding, the celebrating?

Not just with spring, but with life?

It's worth pondering.

What I look for, that’s what I find. And the unsought, I’ll never find that.

​The good in another,the movement toward hope,the healing of a rift.

​What am I looking for?

As the One I follow once said, “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find;knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives,and the one who seeks finds,and to the one who knocks it will be opened.” ​(Matthew 7:7,8)

I’ve always thought about these words in the context of prayer, but maybe there’s more here. Maybe that thing I’m waiting for – that change, that renewal, that shift –will only be found if I actively seek it.

​Maybe I need to watch for it, look for it, seek it, like I seek spring on an early April afternoonwhen the temperature is 40 degrees and the wind is sharp and the willows are dancing in gossamer.

HumminB

]]>Sun, 24 Mar 2019 17:55:04 GMThttp://brendazook.weebly.com/blog/out-the-doorramblings-from-the-wilderness“Wilderness is a state of mind, an adventure of the soul. Inside every human being there are tracts of wilderness beyond imagining. But to experience wilderness to the full, to have any kind of grasp on what it really means, you do occasionally have to go outside.Whatever else wilderness is, it’s not something you encounter vicariously or watch through the window. It’s for you personally. For your actual life."from The Wilderness Within YouA Lenten journey with Jesus, deep in conversation by Penelope Wilcock​I read this in my (unusual) Lenten devotional book this morning, when it was much too cold to venture forth in my shivering opinion. I gazed at the clouds floating by, took a few deep breaths, and said, okay, I’ll make it a priority when I get home this afternoon.

​

It’s late in the day, but I’m keeping my promise. Bundling myself into my heaviest sweatshirt, hood up, I venture forth toward my wooded wilderness. I'll take you along this time, but you know, finding your own wilderness is best.

Spring is trying hard to slip through the door into my valley, but winter is like that cousin who dropped by for a minute and three hours later, he’s still rummaging in the fridge. How can he be enticed to leave? The wind sighs impatiently through the pine trees, loud, then louder. I’m immediately glad I grabbed my gloves for this adventure. It’s much colder than it looks, but still, I think I can catch a glimpse of spring from here.

​Stretching along the valley, the mountains look fuzzy, like a baby’s head when the hair is almost visible. Soft. Almost wooly. Almost leaves. Almost tree blossoms. ​Almost.​​

Behind me a blue bird whistles its signature slurred notes, pauses on a branch with his bluest of blue feathers, then disappears. A bluebird is always a good sign.

However, the Hickory Lane screech owl is not feeling sociable today. He’s keeping his wee antennae tuned to what’s happening in the neighborhood, but apparently, he’s not coming out to play or even to have a look around.​

I notice that green is creeping oh so slowly into the color palette of the woods. Moss coats logs and leaf mold, waving sporophytes like flags of victory, as if to announce, yes, in fact, spring will conquer!

Everywhere, water gurgles and tumbles down muddy runs. Once again, I’m glad that on my recent local shoe shop visit I opted for the waterproof hikers. Looks like I’m not the only one who has been slogging along this path, leaving nothing but footprints. I know if I step in the wrong place “waterproof” won’t keep the muck from squelching its way up over the tops of the laces, but I have to smile anyway because even the mud seems to be promising “spring.”

The sun dips low in the afternoon sky, slanting its spotlight across the mountainside and highlighting the most unlikely specimen. Dead leaves never looked so stunning.

Pine needles shimmer like green crystal prisms,

and the path goes ever on and on.

I seem to be having trouble breathing deeply enough. A walk on the wild side always does this to me. My vision clears, my gratitude list stretches 2.8 miles long, and my anxieties wither like winter dried lichens. I want to say thank you and yes and wow all at once. I think God hears my heart, and I imagine He feels the same way:

And God saw everything that he had made,and behold,it was very good.​Genesis 1:31

Spring is not the season of sycamores when their new leaves push forth, slowly, slowly. They’re easily out done by red bud and dog wood, daffodil and crocus, and by lilac double-blessed with splash of lavender and wild fragrance. The flower of the sycamore is not very showy; it’s easy to miss it altogether. Spring is not the season of sycamores.​Summer sycamores do not impress, although they lavish shade, unasked, and the eagles seem to haunt the spreading branches like summer dreams. But every tree grants cooling shade, and sycamores blend in like my friend Mary with the mouse brown hair. When her mother died, and she stood in the receiving line with her eleven siblings, she overheard one mourner murmuring, “I didn’t remember they had a Mary.” If she had known Mary in the season when I knew her, she would have remembered. Mary was a sycamore.

Autumn is not kind to sycamores. Their leaves drop early, as brown and ragged as roadside grass after a long, hard winter. Homeowners grumble, raking piles of enormous, brittle leaves, disentangling them from bushes where they’ve blown like last week’s litter. Otherwise, no one notices the sycamores amid the splash and glory of maple and birch. The only statement sycamore leaves make with their color is “we are dead.”

And then winter blows in with a nor’easter, and beauty disappears, apparently hibernating with the whole wooded world beneath the frozen earth. Snow sparkle doesn’t linger, and the landscape fades to gray. Winter dawdles, and everyone is weary of the cold, the drab scenery, the wild wind.

The world is paused, frozen, between winter and spring. ​This isthe season of the sycamores.

“Work is not always required of a man.​There is such a thing as sacred idleness,the cultivation of which is now fearfully neglected.”

These are the words of Scottish author and minister George MacDonald, (1824-1905), written in a world that I have trouble envisioning as rushed or lacking in opportunities for idleness. The Model T was still a few years away, and electricity wouldn’t find its way to my corner of rural Pennsylvania for decades. There was some question as to whether or not farm families even wanted or needed electricity.

No one in MacDonald's world was ever interrupted with reminders of incoming e-mail or text messages, and twitter was still a bird word. Telephone use was a rare and not-rural luxury. It‘s hard for me to grasp that in those years, anyone struggled with the allow-ability of sacred idleness. Everything was closed on Sunday. No one had electricity for watching baseball on television or even for lights when the evening crept across the porch.

And yet. Sacred idleness was “fearfully neglected.” ​

​MacDonald spent his childhood as farm boy, and no one sweats through the limitless availability of work more than a farm family. All of my farmer neighbors in still manage their lives “off the grid." And it seems that most moments of most days, work is required of the men. And the women too.

​Perhaps MacDonald was remembering hot afternoons forking hay into the mow or frigid mornings breaking ice in the watering trough with chapped hands when those words poured from his pen.

But most of us aren’t farmers any more, and the labor intensity of earlier decades has faded like the color from an old photograph. People, theoretically, have more leisure, so one might imagine we would be more in tune with the cultivation of sacred idleness. But again no. I think MacDonald would be astonished to observe the frantic pace at which so many of us insist on living life in the 21st century.

When you left work today, how many stops did you have to make on the way home? How many calls did you make during your commute? How many times have you reached for your phone in the past 15 minutes? What did you do while you were cooking dinner?What about after school/after work activities – how many kids are you taking in how many directions? How long did your family sit at the dinner table on any given night this week?

Look up the word multitasking, which MacDonald had never heard of, and you’ll be awash in information about why it is good/bad/easy/impossible/beneficial/harmful.

I believe George MacDonald is still right – work is not always required. But it seems like "busy-ness" is required. Look at how we have filled the extra time that used to be devoted to hard physical work: Technology. Empty entertainment. Frantic rushing from one event to the next.

Maybe the reasons have changed, but it appears that we continue to avoid the deep water of sacred idleness in our lives. Forging upstream to a quiet pool through the rushing water of current crazybusy culture isn’t easy. It will never be just right, or convenient to choose a different way.

Always, the oughts and shoulds will clamor for your eyes, your ears, your hands, your attention like a bevy of school children wanting to be chosen first and right now, “pick me, pick me, pick me.”

Maybe it’s time to say – eeny, meeny, miney, NO to one more activity,and yes to sacred idleness.

​Imagine what that might look like for you, today, just for ten minutes.

Look at your favorite tree from a new angle. It's always good to look up.

Or, take in the sweep of the bigger view of your "same old same old" world.

Stare out your office window, listen to the sounds your house makes as night falls, wander along the creek, rock a weary child or just yourself, linger after dinner, wait for the sunrise or sunset, light a candle, read a book. Watch the clouds scudding across your window view. Take a little ramble, "there and back again," with no further plan than that. You might be surprised along the way.

I had never seen an owl dozing in a tree hole before my Sunday ramble.

The mountain disappeared moments ago,erased in a wash of whitest white, and the farm on the hill is fading like the memory of a daybreak dream.

Wind roars white noise, canceling every other sound; it flings snow sheets left, right, across my window view. ​How does the brown earth disappear when the flakes never seem to land anywhere?

song sparrow: he's heard the forecast, and he's mad about it.

These brutal winter days are hard on "my" birds. They huddle in the lee of the feeder.

During a lull they dash about like children beneath a pinata, only this is a life and death scramble for the seed energy that will carry them through what promises to be the coldest day of the winter so far.

(But tomorrow’s forecast threatens worse conditions.)

A starling has insinuated himself among the usual throng of doves, finches, and song sparrows. ​ I contemplate the comments of hardcore birders about these “introduced” species:

“You will soon have no suet left.”“Highly invasive.”“Not native.”“They take over.”“The dreaded starling.”“Darn pigs.”I imagine fifty birds invading my feeding area, terrifying all the regulars with their pecking and scrapping. That would be a problem. But if starlings were as scarce as January sunburn, I’d be reporting today’s find on important (to birders) websites.

A slight readjustment of perspective clears my vision. I want to see “what is.”

Tiny splashes of glory spangle across iridescent feathers.I am stunned into silent admiration. Breast decorated with more stars than a roomful of generals, coverts outlined in glitter glow, what’s not to love?

If you bring a murmuration of your friends to my seed party, I’ll wave my arms like a crazy cat woman and send you skittering on your glossy tails.

But you, lone visitor,glimmering and glistening like a meteor fallen from the sky, ​please shimmer here a little longer.

I had an unexpected opportunity to spend a few days in Maine last week with my friend. She had a long drive ahead of her to attend a family funeral, so she invited me to travel “home” with her. We’re always trying to find time to “catch up;” a coffee hour here or there is never adequate. But a nine-hour road trip? Yes, please! What a wonderful weekend. Next time, maybe we’ll shop at the L.L.Bean flagship store, and I can dream about visiting the area where Robert McCloskey lived when he wrote his famous children’s books – One Morning in Maine and Blueberries for Sal, and Time of Wonder. ​But this trip was its very own time of wonder. Counting my blessings was easy, One Weekend in Maine.

Morning gratitudes.

One magical thermometer. Whatever it said at last light, when the sun slid through pink-orange-glory behind the far mountain, it reset to zero every.single.morning.

A polite stream of well-mannered tufted titmice. ​An uncountable scattering of black capped chickadees, at least a dozen, the official state bird of Maine, impervious to cold, brave, friendly, even to strangers. They barely paused while I filled the feeders. I paused, though, motionless, barely breathing.

I listened to the murmuring chatter of a red squirrel I could have touched (if I had been quicker and he had been slower!)

Wing whirl surrounded me, cheeky little chickadees, daring, darting, dashing to the feeders. I forgot the cold for five minutes...then pondered that pajama pants weren’t the winterwear of choice here.

About five of the fattest grey squirrels I have ever seen, gorging themselves on seeds and suet, performing impossible gymnastic moves despite their girth. Maybe three cheeky red squirrels: “We don’t like them, they are nasty little rodents,” but as she said this, I watched her weathered hands carefully breaking two unwanted bread crusts into the smallest pieces. Squirrels haunted the walkway where she scattered those perfect sized bites. They waited patiently and they heard what she murmured later. “They have to eat too.” I heard their chatter of gratitude.

One moment, a solitary mink’s face appeared, white and wide-eyed in the snowy bush beneath the feeders. I wondered if I was imagining, but the squirrels disappeared instantly. It was a moment of wonder. But the weekend had a lot of those moments.

Afternoon gratitudes.

Daily walks. We wandered down long snow-covered roads with the sound of snow squeak underfoot, oh God, how I’ve missed that sound. Here in PA, we’ve heard the squelch of mud, step by step, for months. Yes, it was freeze-your-nose-hairs cold, but it was clear and bright, and the sky was wildly blue, so much beauty even in the dead of winter.

Once a pileated woodpecker crossed our path, but mostly we were surrounded by vast silence and enormous trees in every direction.

​

I understand “The Pine Tree State” nickname differently now. These pines are beyond what I see on my mountain walks at home. Hemlocks too, loom large and lush and green, and I hope this cold will keep at bay the woolly adelgid pest that is decimating the hemlocks at home.

I wasn't the only one taking pictures...

And the birches...and every other tree in the woods. Evening light turns them to a soft gold, like the lamp light shining out from the windows of home.

And this was home for me for a few days. My friend had lived here for part of her life and made decades of summer vacation memories in this family homestead that was built in 1808.

​Her mama lives here alone now, and at 90 something is still tending her neatly shoveled paths to garage and bird feeder and shed.

Evening gratitudes.

Having some extra time with a “mom person” was the gift I didn’t see coming this weekend. I felt welcomed, taken in, and I found myself thinking often of my own mom who has been gone for nearly six years. I hadn’t realized how much I have missed the easy company of an older woman with a lifetime of stories and a twinkle in her eye. In most of the circles where I move these days, I am the older woman, so it was funny and sweet to hear her tell her friends, “I’m taking the girls to lunch tomorrow,” and realize she meant us. We lingered around the table, talking over coffee in the mornings, and playing Parcheesi in the evenings; that eye twinkle morphed to fire in the competition of the game! We drank rich hot chocolate and we just relaxed. One night we took “Mom” out to see Mary Poppins Returns, and picked up take out pizza for supper afterwards. We. laughed. a. lot. Like those plucky little chickadees, she lives in a cold, remote place with the kind of courage and resilience that I hope I have developed by the time I am 90 something. As she put it, “I’ll just keep trusting the Lord to take care of me.”

All weekend gratitudes. When we first arrived, well after dark, the house lights revealed the snow sparkle on the bushes hunched near the house like sleeping cats. I was so concerned that the snow would be gone the next day...would I be able to get pictures before it blew off or melted in the morning light? They laughed kindly at my worries. Melt? Not until April. The next morning, sure enough, snow sparkle everywhere- I was enthralled. But I wasn’t the only one. In her rich Maine accent, Mom Madeline paused at the window and commented softly, “Spaaahkles everywhere.” She still notices the wonder. Is that the secret of her joyful life?

The deep freeze of night seemed to refresh the sparkle that glinted out from the bare branches. It was breathtaking. (Or was that the temperature?) My camera and I were inseparable, and my tour guides were kind and patient. And although I have over two hundred shots to choose from, it’s still hard to find pictures that convey the beauty. I'll just leave a few more for you to enjoy, a few more to remind me to say thanks for the memories.

Every day, all weekend long, the spaaahkles winked and glittered, adding shine and glory to the world. It was a time of wonder, one weekend in Maine.

HumminB

]]>Wed, 09 Jan 2019 02:24:30 GMThttp://brendazook.weebly.com/blog/more-lessons-from-the-road-less-traveledIf you’re from central PA, (or even if you know someone from central PA) you’re aware that the weather has been less than lovely in recent days.weeks.months. We’ve had rain upon rain, interspersed with days of “partly cloudy,” mostly cloud, clouds giving way to showers...you get the picture. I think it’s the hardest “season” of the year for me – winter without snow. ​It was during just such a week of weather, when I was fulfilling a role as travel guide for holiday visitors along a winding road heading up the mountain, that one of my “not from here” passengers commented, “It’s just so beautiful here.” I chuckled.

“Now I know you’ll have to come back,” I replied. “If you think it’s pretty now...”My mind was busy with a picturesque sales pitch for alternatives to the current bleak view through dirty windows...

If you think this is pretty, you should visit the Valley in springtime, when the mountains are soft and green with promise, when pink buds swell along the redbud stems, and lambs frisk in verdant meadows.

If you think this is pretty, spend some summer days winding along the back roads where farmers with horse drawn equipment are raking hay in long fragrant swaths, and barefoot children clamor along the creek. Every other farm has a “Produce” sign hanging on a fence post, and the tomatoes are fat and sun ripened. And you can eat sweet corn every single day.

If you think this pretty, autumn will take your breath away with its splendid maples splashing orange and yellow everywhere, fields dotted with corn shocks, and apple trees ladened with globes of gold.

All these scenes went spinning through my mind as we rounded the bend to a view of bare trees silhouetted against a bleak sky.

Words were lined up in my brain, ready to march forth and tell them what beautiful really meant. And just as quickly, I pinched my lips together and sent the words into retreat, because my young friends held the wiser perspective. They were right. ​It is beautiful here. Right now. And every day of every year, beauty is to be found-

if. I. am. looking. for. it.

(It's not like God goes to Florida for the winter...)

True, the season of deep winter, snowless, seems to call for more sleuthing skills than just about any other time, but this is a good season to develop a new skill or strengthen a weak one. So, thanks E and K for prodding me without realizing it, for giving me reason to ponder the Thoreau quote that appeared on my daily calendar the day after the above comment:

The question is not what you look at, but what you see."

It’s time for-(More) Lessons from the road less traveled.

1. Practice mindfulness.

New Year's Day dandelion!

Pay attention to what’s right in front of you, literally and also metaphorically. Mindfulness is defined in some circles as "bringing one's attention to experiences occurring in the present moment." It’s noticing what you see. I’m surprised how hard it is for me to stay focused on this present moment when I’m taking my daily walk. My mind is often anywhere but here. I’m trying to change that. The camera seems to help me.

​

​2. Remember the long view.

Perspective. Here and now is important. But it’s not all there is. Sometimes a long walk is exactly the view shift that I need to get out of the mental box I’ve been circling in all day. It’s good to see the road stretch out ahead of me, or behind me, and think about the journey.

​

​3. Accept the wonder...

that has come in the midst of losses, disappointments, changes in plans. As much as I miss the fresh smell of spring, the warm rays of sun on my back as I garden on a summer afternoon, the autumn sound of leaf crunch underfoot, I know that unless those seasons fade, I would never see the splendor of sycamores in winter. These trees have no outstanding features to draw the eye until the frigid winter days. Then, the creamy mottled bark radiates beauty.

4. Be aware of who is watching.

Not in the way we usually think of it (or at least the way I usually think of it.) Not because I don’t want to embarrass myself or because I’m worried about what “they” will think.

But because – someone is usually watching, someone younger or more vulnerable or less settled, and they will choose what I choose; they will watch my actions and reactions and respond similarly because of my example.

My decision gives them permission. So, don’t forget the watchers.

​And yet...

​5.Don’t be afraid to take some risks.

On a hike along the Conewago Trail last week, I saw quite a few squirrels. But this one was the bravest, dangling along the far edge of his balancing abilities, enjoying what must have been a very tasty feast of (???) buds. ​Don’t let your fears keep you from the feast.

​6. Grow here.

​Five years from now, you will be five years older, but will you be five years better? That doesn’t depend on your circumstances, that depends on your decisions.

These trees, growing out of solid rock, reminded me that I’m responsible for my own growth, even if conditions are less than optimal.

7. Rejoice in what is even if you are also grieving what is not.

On Friday I set out for my usual walk, camera in hand and wondered why I’d bothered to bring it. The entire sky was socked in with clouds. I saw no glint of sun, no blue sky; all the greens had faded to gray, trees stood stark and leafless, outlined against the sky. But then sunset flared up with colors so vibrant I thought the sky might be on fire.

​More lessons from the road less traveled. And as is generally the case, I'm writing first and foremost for me. I need the reminders, every single one of them. Thanks for listening to me talk to myself.

Remember, the question is not what you look at but what you see. (Thanks, Thoreau.)

If you’re singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” this post is probably not for you. These words are for the ones who are struggling because whatever made life hard in the previous eleven months didn’t evaporate when December rolled around. In fact, it got harder.

As I prayed through my “prayer list” this morning, the deep pain scribbled on that post-it-note almost took my breath away. Oh, dear God, so much pain. A kid on chemo. A mom in therapy for PTSD “from my childhood.” A son back on drugs. A parent with dementia. Adult kids leaving marriages behind, (“it’ll never be the same again,” my friend murmured.) The death of a very difficult family member. (How do we grieve?) Suicides or threats thereof. ((When did the world get so dark that even a preteen can’t find a reason to keep living?) And so many more people carrying terrible loads that I won’t describe here because their news isn’t mine to share. And these are just the most urgent items that I jot down as they arise over a few weeks’ time. You probably have a list too...and I didn’t name the bits on my very own personal list. More pain.

Maybe you’re on my list. Or you would be if you would tell me what you’re carrying. It’s beyond heavy. It’s paralyzing. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to “do” Christmas. The holiday hoopla feels so pointless, so painful. Sitting in church, (if you can even go...) listening to carols, you’re not sure you really belong. You don’t want to be a wet blanket on other people’s Christmas spirit, but you can’t quite get there from here.

This poem is for you. You know who you are. You’re lonely. You’re wounded. You’re grieving.You’re estranged from people you thought loved you. You’ve said the long goodbye.You’re bowed beneath the load of life. You’re sitting beside a hospital bed. You’re waiting for the phone to ring, but it doesn’t.You’ve just heard your doctor say the word malignant. ​You’re broke. And broken too. This poem is for you. For all the ones who can’t seem to muster any Christmas Spirit.

God. came. down.For all the times we cannot look up,cannot reach up,cannot stand up,cannot cheer up,cannot keep up,cannot wake up from the nightmare that life has become-God came down. (You know, Emmanuel.)It’s the whole point of everything.God’s part? The Presence. The Present. In every sense of the word.Our part? The Pause. The Yes.God with us. God’s Spirit in us, beneath us, beside us, behind us, over us.